Stockholmes Syndrome
by MoriartyOwesYouAFall
Summary: *ADOPTED* Based very very loosely on Beauty and the Beast, this is an ongoing Sheriarty story that I'm doing with my fabulous collaborator, Sherlocked-With-Loki. Tons of smut, hints of Johnlock, as well as some Moran/Sherlock. Rated M for a VERY GOOD reason.
1. Chapter 1

**HELLO EVERYONE! **

**This is just a note to say that I have taken over 'Stockholmes Syndrome' and I am VERY excited about it. :D**

**I will try and live up the the ****_exceptional_**** standards set by 'GeekOfAwesome'.**

**I am uploading a chapter hopefully in the next week, so until then.**

**STAY AWESOME!**

**~MoriartyOwesYouAFall**


	2. In Which Sherlock Is Punished

**Hi everyone! I hope y'all enjoy this chapter, myself and 'Sherlocked-With-Loki' have worked hard to get it out ASAP and I hope that this chapter is as good as the other five before it! **

**WARNING: SMUT SCENE. **

Jim, admittedly, is a bit shocked for a moment as John shoots Moran in the arm- a mere graze, to be fair, but a daring move nonetheless. Sherlock watched with both horror and admiration as John sprinted for the door. No-one dared to go against Sebastian Moran. Sebastian is already making as if to run after him, but Jim simply laughs, waving a hand to still him as he leans his head back against Sherlock's shoulder, looking pleased.

Sherlock's face drained and he felt Jim's head rest back onto his shoulder but he was too stunned to react. The things John has said...

_I'm not wasting two bullets on this bastard._

_Keep Sherlock._

_I couldn't care less if Sherlock dies. He's yours anyway._

"Let him go." He won't be able to do much of anything, and considering that Sebastian has more weapons than the gun with a single bullet that John's armed with, it'd be a suicide mission on his part to come back. "Let go of me, Sherly dear. Though I appreciate the sentiment."

The words broke through Sherlock's skull and echoed around his head. His grip loosened and Jim slipped free. Jim stands as Sherlock releases his throat, brushing the wrinkles from his impeccably-tailored suit in irritation. He tilts his head as he turns to Sherlock, cracking the stiffness from his muscles. Sherlock's knees then gave way and he collapsed onto the cell floor. He lifted his head up and saw Jim look at Sebastian. The man nodded and left the room. Now he and Jim were alone. Jim's hand tangles in Sherlock's hair none too gently and begins dragging him into the bedroom wordlessly. Shoots a small glance out the window to see a flash of blond exiting the facility borders- John's gone, finally. He hauls the man up onto the bed, pinning him on his back.

Sherlock yelped in pain as he was pulled across the room mercilessly. He hated it when Jim went quiet, bad things usually followed. He was thrown roughly onto the bed and the remainders of his clothes were torn and lay in ribbons on his broken body and littered the red over-covers of the bed. Jim grabbed his hands and yanked them above his head. He tied them securely with the bonds that had once held John. Sherlock struggled desperately as memories of the night Jim had paid him his first visit. He stopped shivering for a few moments to notice Jim's face above him.

Then, all too soon, Jim's lips were pressing against his roughly. His tongue was soon sliding across his lower lip, demanding access but Sherlock denied him. With his free hand, Jim yanked on his hair with more force than was really necessary. As Sherlock's lips parted in a cry, Jim's took his chance. His tongue darted around Sherlock's mouth, exploring every part of his pet. Then, just as quickly as he'd appeared, his tongue vanished from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock then panicked and thrashed more, then Jim's lips were on his jaw. Gently, his lips would slide up to his ear and he bit down on the lobe so hard he tasted blood. Sherlock screamed and thrashed but Jim's weight shifted and his knees were on either side of his hips, straddling him. Then Jim left his bleeding ear alone, and made his way down Sherlock's neck. Sherlock tried to pull away but both his bonds and Jim were keeping him in place. Then, Jim's weight shifted again and he was making his way down. Drawing his nails across Sherlock's bare chest until he was at the detective's waist. Once again Sherlock thrashed and pulled on his bonds.

"Now now darlin' wouldn't want anything to break now." Jim patted the detective's abdomen and smiled sickly. His fingers were working at Sherlock's trousers now and Sherlock could do absolutely nothing to stop him.

He hated being powerless. The one who was ordered around. Being vulnerable. Being almost human. Tears began to pool in his grey eyes. John had always called them green while Mary and Lestrade always thought they were blue. Thoughts and memories of his friends and his old life, caused the tears to fall but deep down Sherlock knew they wouldn't deter Jim. His old life was gone and he was now nothing but a whore for a 'consulting criminal'.

Jim's hands slide off Sherlock's trousers, discarding them in the corner of the room haphazardly, not particularly caring where they land. Sherlock won't be needing them any time soon. He lays down next to Sherlock in an almost caring manner, though in reality it's anything but, as his fingers slip into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock obediently laves them, as much as he hates to do so, but he knows that it's the only lubrication he's going to get. Jim pulls out after a few moments before slipping his fingers out, drifting down and into Sherlock's unprepared hole roughly, tearing a pained cry from the detective's throat. His distinctive Irish lilt is cold and mocking as he speaks into Sherlock's ear.

"How cute. And utterly pitiful. You saved John how many times- and he couldn't care less what happens to you. So disgustingly eager to see something that isn't there, aren't you? Hoping that somehow, maybe someone normal tolerates you," he hisses. "How sentimental."

Sherlock was too desperate to escape by now. He was hearing his words but he wasn't listening. He lashed out with one foot blindly...and smacked Jim straight in the stomach. Jim roared and Sherlock lashed out again. This time he managed to land a blow to his cheekbone. This was when Jim struck back. His fist slammed against Sherlock's face and blood quickly began to pour. Jim growled and his finger slipped out of Sherlock and he let his hand fall to the bed. His face was consorted with both rage and pain. His nails dug into the soft flesh below his jaw as he tore Sherlock's head up to look at him.

"You will pay for that but not yet. I have use of you yet."

This truly got Sherlock scared. He wasn't scared often. Hardly ever. Jim suddenly got up and got off the bed, leaving the detective tied to the frame. He snarled one last time before turning around and slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock heard a key turn and then all of a sudden, he was alone, naked and tied to a bed. If this was how he was going to die, it wasn't the most dignified way to go. This was when he really let the tears go and his

wails, full of pain and pure sorrow, could be heard all around the facility.

When Jim returns several hours later, after dinner and a meeting with the leader of the American branch of the empire, he's cooled off, a bit. Anger with James, though, was usually more dangerous cold. True, hot, immediate anger led to explosions and fire and outright terrorism, but it was obvious and rash. That was the rash anger of a tornado, but this was all the decisive and focused raw power of an atomic bomb.

He has cuffs for Sherlock's ankles, in one hand, and in the other a wicked-looking riding crop and needle-like and razor-sharp blade. He hasn't brought any food for the man, and the tear trails down Sherlock's face are incredibly satisfying. The man seems to have cried himself to sleep. Perfect. He snaps the cuffs around the detective's ankles snugly, silently, before moving to wake the man up with a harsh snap of the crop to his sensitive abdomen.

The harsh SNAP of the riding crop on his stomach quickly jerked Sherlock awake. He tried to bolt up but remembered that his hands were tied. Literally. He tried to move his feet also but they were now cuffed. He should of seen that coming. He had attacked Jim, after all. His vision was still blurred but now he couldn't raise his hands to wipe his face as he blinked the tears away and his sight slowly began to return, he saw the black leather riding whip in Jim's left hand along with a sharp looking razor. Jim made his way over to the detective's head and brought up the razor.

"This is going to be a whole lot easier for the both of us if you don't struggle."

Then the razor began to bite into his flesh beside his right eye. Sherlock pulled away and threw his head around but got a firm smack from the crop if he moved. Jim took the razor away from Sherlock's eye and moved it towards his neck. This was when Sherlock panicked. He moved and got another smack. But it wasn't a sharp blade that he felt on his neck. It was lips. Except this time, it was a whole less friendly.

Jim's teeth dragged across the flesh and sunk in near his jaw. Jim twisted then let go then bit down somewhere else. It all seemed too precise to Sherlock. Jim then sat on Sherlock's hips again and smiled at his handiwork. He'd bitten a 'JM' into Sherlock's neck. His mark. Sherlock was his and he wanted to whole world to know it. As Jim continued to cut Sherlock in random places, he thought about taking him out into public. With his bitemarks and bruises, with a leather collar on full show around his neck. He thought about paying 221B or Scotland Yard or even Mycroft a visit. How he would love to see their reactions when they saw what the man they once thought as brilliant, smart and invincible had been brought to. He smiled at the thought. He then dropped the bloody razor and felt something touch the inside of his leg.

"Excited, are we?"

Jim's hand made it's way down to Sherlock's crotch and he squeezed. Sherlock's hips involuntarily bucked and pushed himself further into Jim's hand. He clenched his teeth and tried to stop his body from reacting but he was failing quickly. All he could do was get it over with quickly. He gasped and thrust again but Jim was the one setting the pace. That excruciatingly slow pace and Sherlock was trying to speed it up and Jim knew it. Jim can see Sherlock's desperation in the trembling of his legs as he attempts to restrain himself from thrusting upwards, and he smirks as he reaches for the riding crop.

He picks it up, delivering a firmer lash to Sherlock's side as he strokes him a bit harder simultaneously before resuming the feather-light touches that are just enough to stimulate, but not anywhere near enough to provide satisfaction.

"I'm going to have you begging for me. For relief. I will have you writhing in desperation, whining like a needy little whore," he says, voice light in contrast to his words.

Sherlock closes his eyes in an attempt to ignore the words, only to be met with a razor blade above his eyes.

"Open them, or I will cut them open. Permanently."

Sherlock forced his eyes open, as much as he hated the view. The place where Jim had lashed his side was red, sensitive and sore.

He tried to stop his legs from trembling but as Jim began touching him only lightly, his back arched. His body began craving release and now he was desperate for as much skin to skin contact as possible.

He hated the way Jim could somehow do this to him and if he ever escaped or was found he'd find a way to make Jim pay for what he's done. To him, to his life and especially to John. But now all Sherlock could do was stay down, be obedient and take whatever Jim did to him.

Jim smirks as Sherlock arches up in desperation, touching him ever-so-lightly even as he shifts the knife down, running it across Sherlock's chest thoughtfully. It's like a high, dominating the detective who's typically so very untouchable, even by his little pet doctor. He regards Sherlock as if he were a blank canvas, before bringing the knife down and drawing thin lines of blood as he traces the man's ribs one by one, his other hand tightening a bit as he strokes Sherlock.

"Do hold still, darling, it'd be a shame if my hand slipped." His mind is buzzing with possibilities. What he could do the detective. He'll break, eventually- everyone does. But when and how it happens will be the fun part.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from moaning and/or crying out from pain.

That powerful light touch that controlled him in so many ways, nagged at his human side. The place where emotions mattered. He tried to move again, slamming his feet and hands against the headboard and the base of the bed. Blood soon began to pour down his arms.

Jim tilted his head and sat back. He grabbed the riding crop and lashed Sherlock on the right side of his face. His head snapped around and Jim smiled, knowing it would bruise. Then he stopped the feather light touches altogether. Sherlock whined then cursed himself for making such a weak noise.

Jim smirks, mocking the whine as he leans forwards to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips, the knife held against his nether regions to prevent any ill-thought-out attempts at lashing out as he forces his tongue inside. Sherlock yelped at the cool steel that was being pressed against his groin. After a few minutes of this Jim pulls away, licking his lips and removing the knife, tossing it to the side off the bed as he slips a hand between their bodies to grab his own member, reaching into his pocket for a packet of lube and slicking it over himself before lining up. He smirks down at Sherlock before sheathing himself into the unprepared detective, groaning in pleasure at the tightness.

Jim can see Sherlock's desperation in the trembling of his legs as he attempts to restrain himself from thrusting upwards, and he smirks as he reaches for the riding crop. He picks it up, delivering a firmer lash to Sherlock's side as he strokes him a bit harder simultaneously before resuming the feather-light touches that are just enough to stimulate, but not anywhere near enough to provide satisfaction.

"I'm going to have you begging for me. For relief. I will have you writhing in desperation, whining like a needy little whore," he says, voice light in contrast to his words.

Sherlock closes his eyes in an attempt to ignore the words, only to be met with a razor blade above his eyes.

"Open them, or I will cut them open. Permanently."

Sherlock forced his eyes open, as much as he hated the view. The place where Jim had lashed his side was red, sensitive and sore. He tried to stop his legs from trembling but as Jim began touching him only lightly, his back arched. His body began craving release and now he was desperate for as much skin to skin contact as possible. He hated the way Jim could somehow do this to him and if he ever escaped or was found he'd find a way to make Jim pay for what he's done. To him, to his life and especially to John.

Jim smirks as Sherlock arches up in desperation, touching him ever-so-lightly even as he shifts the knife down, running it across Sherlock's chest thoughtfully. It's like a high, dominating the detective who's typically so very untouchable, even by his little pet doctor. He regards Sherlock as if he were a blank canvas, before bringing the knife down and drawing thin lines of blood as he traces the man's ribs one by one, his other hand tightening a bit as he strokes Sherlock.

"Do hold still, darling, it'd be a shame if my hand slipped."

His mind is buzzing with possibilities. What he could do the detective. He'll break, eventually- everyone does. But when and how it happens will be the fun part.

Sherlock writhed underneath Jim. This was nothing like the first night. Hell, as much as he hated to admit it, he actually enjoyed the first night. That was different. It was nothing like this. Jim was rough, heavy handed and brutal. And Sherlock has loved every second of it. He shut his eyes for a second before remembering Jim's threat. He quickly snapped them back open.

"Good boy." Jim's harsh drawl rang in his ears.

His finger wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders to support himself and squeezed. The fingernail dug into Sherlock's shoulder blades, drawing blood. It slowly added to the pool that was seeping through into the sheets. The crimson liquid had dried and left a trail across the pale skin of the detective's arms. His dark curls were wet with sweat and stuck to his forehead. Sherlock looked utterly wrecked, sweat, blood and tears mixing against pale skin and soaking into the sheets. Jim frowns a bit. Perhaps he should have done this elsewhere.

That was Egyptian cotton.

He runs a hand down Sherlock's cheek and smirks as he continues pounding roughly, the twisted pleasure visible in Sherlock's expression.

"Such a good little whore. I think someone else deserves to see how well you take this," he muses, rolling his hips up into Sherlock as he tugs on his raven curls. "Perhaps I'll send a memento video to your dear brother, seeing as how he so loves seeing you beaten bloody."

At the mention of his brother, Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts.

"Please, not Mycroft. Not anyone..." His voice faded out weakly, he wasn't going to be able to take much more of this. Jim just laughed and moved inside him. Sherlock swallowed, his legs still trembling. He felt Jim pull up his head sharply. He tugged on his bonds in vain. With his free hand Jim brought up the razor.

The sharp edge passed through the detective's dark hair like it was butter. Sherlock's head hit the bed again and he saw the clump of hair Jim clutched in his right hand. The criminal smiled, grabbed another handful of hair and repeated the action over and over again. Sherlock's hair was still enough for him to grab but it was short so the curls turned into spikes. More tears came fresh to Sherlock's eyes and soon enough they fell. He let his body go limp as he gave up, utterly defeated.

Jim finishes a few minutes later, pulling out and leaving the detective's abused hole dripping. He takes a few locks of hair and tucks them into his pocket, grinning and ruffling Sherlock's now-short hair.

"Mm, yes, I think Mycroft will looove to see this," he drawls. "Maybe I'll send Johnny a little piece of your hair. He'll probably burn it with the rest of your stuff when he gets rid of it, but it's the thought that counts."

He looks down at his watch.

"Oh, my, look at the time, I really must be off," he says, standing from the bed and straightening his suit, which magically has avoided even the smallest drop of blood. "Ta."

And then he's gone, looking perfectly composed and leaving Sherlock chained to the bed, wrecked.

**I hope you all enjoyed that! **

**YES I KNOW I AM CRUEL . (It was me who wrote in Jim cutting Sherlock's hair :3 ) **

**READ AND REVIEW PLEASE.**

**Thank you for reading! :3**


	3. In Which There Is Greg

**HEY FRIENDS! This is the seventh chapter of 'Stockholmes Syndrome' and we are halfway through chapter eight as you read. There's a bit of fluffy Sebastian/Sherlock in here ((new OTP, I am so sorry)). But anyway **

**ENJOY**

* * *

John bolted out of the facilities gates as fast as his legs would carry him. He didn't stop until he was around the corner and out of sight of anyone who could possibly be watching. He stood with his back flat against the wall, breathing heavily, expecting Sebastian to come charging around the corner and tear him apart. When the man never appeared his came out of hiding and sat down on the curb. What could he do? Where could he go? Who could he go to? Sherlock was still in danger and no doubt Jim wouldn't be that gentle when it came to punishment. He'd been in that position for a few minutes, gathering his thoughts, when his phone went off.

_You might want to get over here. We've received something from Moriarty but its bad John. Really bad. ~MH  
_

Mycroft? Worry and panic soon took over. He hailed a cab, told the cabbie where Mycroft lived and they were away.

The video had been on loop on his computer since it'd arrived. Impossible to turn off- evidently there was some sort of minor virus attached, as none of the firewalls registered a breach in his files. Watching Sherlock be beaten like that was sickening. Nothing at all like in Russia (which of course, Jim had felt the need to mention.) When his assistant- she'd chosen the name Katherine, for today- tells him that John has arrived, he composes himself, muting the video for a moment as John is led in, though he still shows the faintest expression of discomfort in the icy facade.

"Doctor Watson."

"I was just about to call you when you text me." John's tone was sharp and shaken. Mycroft didn't react straight away.

"I was told that we'd got something from Moriarty?"

Mycroft nodded and swallowed. Should he warn John before showing him to video? He decided against it, turned the laptop and turned on the sound. Instantly the colour drained from John's face. He tried to look away but his eyes were glued to the screen. Upon seeing John's reaction, Mycroft turned the laptop back around and muted it again.

"I told you it was bad." He said simply.

"He was being...Moriarty was..." John couldn't bring himself to say it. He stared at Mycroft before saying. "Well, what now?"

Mycroft sighs, steeping his fingers and looking at John.

"That, Doctor, is the problem. I can't very well order a strike- my men and Sherlock wouldn't survive it. Not with Moran there." He will willingly admit that Moran is the best gunman in the world. Unfortunately.

John couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"_SO WE'RE JUST GOING TO LEAVE HIM THERE_." His anger took over and he felt his voice rise. "You saw it for yourself Mycroft! There's no way he's going to survive much more of that sort of abuse. He's your _brother_ for Christ sake!"

Mycroft doesn't flinch, instead he sighs heavily.

"Calm yourself, John. I have no intention of letting him stay there; if that is the kind of treatment he'll receive. However, I am unsure of what, exactly, we can do, which is why you were called."

John shifted his weight to his other foot.

"I don't quite understand what you think I can do about it. Moran would shoot me where I stood if I tried to go back."

Mycroft accepted this information and thought for a while.

"Not if you agree to make a deal with him."

"I still don't understand. What sort of deal could I possibly make?"

"It has come to my understanding that you walked right in on the two of them...um" He coughed, showing how uncomfortable he really was. John went red and nodded.

"If you were to access the facility and manage to work some kind of deal with Moriarty where you were allowed to be with Sherlock alone for a few hours. You may be able to get him out of there." Mycroft then sat back and allowed John to think.

John's jaw works as he thinks.

"I might be able to. If they even let me close enough to the building to ask to see him, which is unlikely at best. Of course, then there's the problem of getting him out. There's only one exit."

Mycroft purses his lips.

"I don't think so. Moriarty is rightfully overcautious- there will almost certainly be another way out of the building."

"Even so, it would no doubt be hidden and it'd take me a while to find. Not forgetting that after that-" John pointed to the laptop screen, which was still turned away from him. "Sherlock wouldn't be able to keep up."

Mycroft took this into account. "It's obvious he doesn't want Sherlock dead. Come here."

John, unsettled by the fact of being forced to watch again, made his way over to Mycroft's desk. Mycroft pointed to Sherlock's shoulder. The video had started again so John could see. There was a line of stitches along his collarbone.

"They must have been done by Moriarty. If we leave him for a few days, Jim'll fix him up and he should be able to run."

"And if he can't?"

"Then I don't know what else to suggest."

John watches the video sadly, jaw tightening. Sherlock actually looks to be enjoying it, up to a point, and the thought makes him sick. How could he let this happen?

"You want me to leave him there for a few more days? With... that?" He doesn't have a word vile enough for Moriarty in his vocabulary.

"Yes."

"...I suppose I have no choice."

Back at the facility, it'd been a few hours since Jim had left him alone. Sherlock's legs ached and the scars on his shoulder blades and upper arms stung. Jim had sent Moran in, the man's bulk ducking through the doorway into the bedroom. Sherlock gulped but didn't try and struggle. He wasn't sure about what Moran was going to do. Moran took a small knife out of his belt and sliced through the bonds that held Sherlock to the frame. He grabbed the detective by the hair and pulled him off the bed. It was harder now his hair was short but hurt a lot more. Probably why Jim did it.

Moran takes him firmly by one arm.

"Can you walk?" he asks gruffly, sounding generally irritated.

"Yes," Sherlock says. It's a bit of a toss-up, but as long as they're not going very far, he'll manage.

Sebastian nods and begins pulling him over to the bathroom through the sitting room, dragging him inside and letting him sit down on the edge of the tub, reaching around him to turn on the water. He waits for the water to get warm before turning back to Sherlock, helping him into the tub, though Sherlock hisses at the water against his wounds. The water immediately turns red, and Sebastian sighs and rinses the man off before plugging the drain, so he's not sitting in bloody water.

Sherlock stays there for a while, obviously not wanting to move anytime soon. Moran stood up and walked from the bathroom before emerging with some fresh, clean clothes. A shirt, trousers, and a black jacket. He puts them on the closed toilet seat before helping Sherlock carefully out of the bath.

He towels the detective off, oddly gentle, and helps Sherlock get dressed in the clothes before combing through his now-short hair, attempting to make it look a bit less spiky.

"Jim's a fucking terrible barber," he says after a moment, huffing in irritation and trimming it so that it's even.

"I don't think he was trying to be _even_. Why are you helping me anyway?" Sherlock was shocked by the gentleness of the larger man. Moran didn't answer straight away. He set down the scissors tilted his head. "Did Jim send you here?" Sherlock voice was going croaky and weak.

Moran nods slightly.

"We've got a dinner guest tonight," he says, gelling up the detective's hair a little to style it and slick it back.

"Used to him being rough," he says to the former question, after a moment. "That was nothing."

"He's done worse?" Sherlock was shocked that Jim could be so cruel. "To you?" He asked and immediately regretted it.

He didn't want to ask Sebastian too much about his relationship with Moriarty. He shifted uncomfortably, letting Sebastian's fingers work through his hair and a smile plucked at the corners of his mouth.

Sebastian pauses for a moment before continuing.

"Yes. When I was in India with the Army, there was an 'accident' with a bomb at a routine cleanup. My unit was killed. I was taken by a group of Iranians and hauled across the country for days. Knocked out and shipped in a crate like an animal back to England. Right to Jim. He wanted me to work for him. At first I refused. He spent 8 months 'convincing' me."

Sherlock sat and listened for a few moments. Not only had he underestimated Moran, he'd looked at him as an enemy and never bothered to see what lied behind the blond hair and blue eyes. For a second, a strange feeling began growing in his belly and soon he recognized the feeling. Guilt. But what did he have to be guilty about? He said nothing just waited to see if Sebastian would continue.

"He can be very creative," he continues. "I still lasted longer than anyone he's ever tried to persuade. Internationally. Just made him more determined, and eventually- obviously- it worked. Not with what he did to me, though."

Sherlock felt like he should ask what Jim did but decided against it. He took a deep breath and tried to stand up straight. The strain was apparently too much for his injured legs as he collapsed and landed in Moran's arms. He looked down at the detective and tilted his head.

"Judging by the fact that he got you to suck him off on your first day here, you shouldn't be that hard to break."

The sniper leaned down and planted a rough, hard kiss to Sherlock sore mouth.

Sherlock presses against him weakly, huffing in slight panic. Is Jim going to torture him like he apparently had with Sebastian? The thought makes him feel a bit ill.

Sensing Sherlock's panic, Sebastian lifted up his chin to look at his eyes.

"He won't hurt you as bad if you just give in to him." He paused. "I learnt that the hard way nut you don't have to."

And it was in that exact moment when Sherlock came to grips with his situation and started to assess a best plan. If he kept fighting and disobeying him then he was going to get more seriously injured. But if he gave in, if he did what Jim wanted then maybe he'd treat him a little better. While Sherlock was thinking, Sebastian pulled the detective into another sharp, aggressive kiss, as if to at least try and comfort him.

Sherlock doesn't try to pull away now, simply letting himself lean against the sniper as the blond's lips press to his. He's nicer, so far, than Jim, at the very least, and he has helped him.

He parts his lips for the kiss, gripping Sebastian's shirt tightly. It's not, perhaps, the best person to turn to for comfort, but seeing as how the person he'd rather be snogging is neither here, nor does he seem to care, Sebastian is an acceptable option. And he can't say the man isn't attractive.

Sebastian shuts his own eyes and allows Sherlock to deepen the kiss. His hands roamed through Sherlock's hair, messing up the style he'd previously made, then gripped his waist tightly.

"Surely Jim wouldn't want you doing..._this_." Sherlock sounded out of breath slightly and Sebastian wasn't sure if this was because the detective was in pain or if he was in a state of fear or arousal. Whatever the reason, it only made Sebastian want the man more.

Sebastian shrugs slightly.

"It'll be fine," he says before resuming the kiss, using his hands to pull Sherlock against him.

Sherlock doesn't protest, though he does make the suggestion that perhaps the couch would be a better location.

They move quickly, though it's really more Sebastian pulling the detective with him, and then the sniper is on the couch, Sherlock seated firmly in his lap.

Sherlock hissed in pain as pressure was put on his legs but moaned quietly as Sebastian pulled lightly on his hair. The sniper was so different to Moriarty; he might actually make life a bit more pleasant.

"Who's this special dinner guest of ours?" He panted into Sebastian's lips.

Sebastian pauses. Shit. They need to be downstairs. He gently pushes Sherlock off.

"Someone we shouldn't keep waiting. We can do this later," he assures, standing and fixing Sherlock's hair a bit. "Sorry," he says, wincing a little bit. Awkward situation when that happens.

Sherlock looks at the flustered sniper and smiles slightly. He does up his tie properly and attempts to straighten his shirt. Before he'd be been excited by the prospect of going with Sebastian but now he facing the aspect of meeting someone who he was bound to know, with his short hair and his bitemarks and bruises. Why else would Jim invite him to dine with them?

Seeing Sherlock panic again made Sebastian uneasy. He shifted towards him and held his hand firmly in his.

"You'll be fine. He won't ask you to do anything in front of him."

Sherlock was calmed by the new information and gave Sebastian's hand a quick squeeze before he was led to the door. Sebastian leads him down the hall and down stairs, through another short hallway before stopping in front of a pair of doors. He slips his hand from Sherlock's, giving him the faintest of smiles before opening the door.

The dining room is grandiose. Very expensive looking, and quite large. The first thing Sherlock notices, however is a very unhappy-looking Lestrade seated in the chair to the left of a grinning Jim.

He stops dead and feels the colour drain from his face. Sherlock suddenly becomes self conscious of all the bruises, scars and bitemarks that covered his thin frame.

Lestrade tore his eyes away from Jim and they settled on to the newcomers. He immediately recognised Sebastian but the person by his side, he couldn't remember seeing.

"Ah, Sherlock, Sebastian, how good of you to _finally_ join us." Moriarty sounded suspicious and his eyes darted between Sherlock and Sebastian. The sniper avoided Jim's eyes and Jim guessed immediately but he didn't say anything. The humiliation would come later.

Lestrade's heart dropped into his stomach as he looked at Sherlock, just what had Jim done to him? He could see the dark bruises that ran down his neck and chest. There were red bitemarks and scars that still looked like they once ran deep. His beautiful dark curls were now styled back and had been hacked short. Sherlock, upon seeing Lestrade's reaction, shrunk a little bit inside himself.

Jim gestures them in, smiling pleasantly though there's definitely an edge to it.

"Come sit down, Sherly," he says, gesturing to the seat to the right of him, directly opposite Lestrade. Sebastian takes up his constant position by the door, nodding ever so slightly at Sherlock.

The detective slowly moves to take a seat, eyes glued to the table and face hot in shame. He can't look at Lestrade, wishes he could simply curl into himself to make himself invisible. Jim tsks.

"Come now, Sherlock, be polite," he chastises.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade whispers. His eyes ran across the face he once knew but was now a blur.

"Hi." He said back, not really wanting to make eye contact.

Sherlock tilted his head at Greg. He was just how he remembered him. Short dark hair that was greying at the edges, the long brown coat that hung around his knees and the olive skin that was slightly tanned. Moriarty looked between the two and sighed before standing up.

"I hope I've given you two enough to talk about, I do hate those awkward silences." He walked to the door and whispered something to Sebastian harshly before dragging him outside. Now Sherlock and Lestrade were alone.

Sherlock squirms a bit in his chair, not quite looking at Greg as his hands fiddle in his lap absently. He lowers his head, trying his best to keep the marks on his neck from view of the inspector.

"I'm sorry," he finally murmurs, almost inaudible. He feels sick.

His main objective was to twist his neck out of Greg's view but unfortunately it did the opposite. Instead of repelling the inspector, it drew his attention to his neck. He reached out gingerly with one hand and moved Sherlock's shirt collar to reveal the purple and red whelps underneath the skin. Sherlock saw what he was doing and pulled away. He looked at Greg's face. It was shock, horror and angers all mixed into one. But there was disappointment there as well. He was disappointed that Sherlock had just let it happen. The mere thought brought Sherlock to tears.

Sherlock's hands clench beneath the table as he gnaws on the inside of his cheek, fighting down tears. Lestrade was disappointed. In him. After everything, he was upset with _Sherlock._ He stands abruptly, uncaring of the criminal's presence outside the door. He can't look at Lestrade- can't look at anything but the floor.

"You know, for a while there, I thought you were different," he mutters, pushing open the door and brushing around Jim with hardly a glance at anyone as he makes for his room. He's not hungry anymore.

Sherlock trips up the stairs into his room, slamming it shut and leaning against the wall to catch his breath, still weak. He then starts moving furniture, pressing the dresser and chairs against the door as a makeshift barricade before retreating to the bathroom, curling up in the bathtub. Hopefully he has some time before anyone comes up. He lets the tears flow freely, now, burying his face in his knees as his legs curl against his chest.

Sebastian pales slightly at Jim's demeanor, instinctively trying to step out of the criminal's grip on his shirt. He has no doubt that Jim knows exactly what was going on- and judging by his expression, he doesn't like it.

Jim's hand curls around Sebastian's throat as a well-placed knee drives the air from the sniper's lungs. He knows Sebastian won't fight back- the one time he ever had; he hadn't been able to move at all for nearly 2 weeks.

"You should know better than to touch my things," he hisses, slamming the bottom of his palm into his chest with nearly enough force to break bone- the criminal is tiny in size, but deceptively strong.

Sebastian lifts up his head weakly to watch Sherlock run up the stairs. The detective stops for a while and mouths "I'm sorry." before turning down the corridor. Sebastian smiles slightly knowing that Jim wouldn't take his anger out on Sherlock. He was doing that now.

"Maybe it's _him_ I should be beating. It must have been him who came onto you. Right, Sebby?" The pet name seemed a whole less friendly now. Sebastian didn't say anything at first but then figured out that Sherlock could get hurt.

"It wasn't him! It was me. It was me..." He tailed off. Why had Jim _bothered_ to ask? If he knew that Sebastian had kissed Sherlock surely he'd known that he started it since Sherlock was almost too weak to stand up...

"I know." Jim's teeth grew into a dark smile. "I just wanted to hear it from you."

His fist flew out and made contact with Sebastian's jaw. The singer's head snapped sideways and his body crumbled to the floor under the impact. Sebastian knows better than to say a word further, simply lying there and taking kicks and punches, not even bothering to curl up, because he knows that just make's Jim's attacks more violent. When it finally stops, he gets into a kneeling position by the wall, bracing a hand against it as he struggles to catch his breath, and automatically begins cataloguing his injuries, still expecting further blows.

Still down in the dining room, a Greg watches Sherlock run out and hears his bedroom door shut before the sound of furniture scraping on wood. He stays in the dining room and just listens. He can hear grunts and yelps; he guessed that that was the reason Jim had dragged Moran outside. He heard another crash. Sebastian hitting the floor. Greg wondered if he should go help him. His hand hovered over the doorknob before he turned it and he stepped out into the hall. Jim was nowhere to be seen. Greg turned to his right and found Sebastian on the floor with one hand on the wall. He knelt down beside the sniper to try and analyse some of his injuries. He'd learnt a bit off John over the years but, to his surprise, Sebastian backed up trying to get away from the inspector. Greg tilted his head, confused. Then there was the click of a gun hammer and Jim strode back into the hall.

"I hate guns. Far too obvious and it makes a terrible mess on my walls. Nevertheless..."

Greg felt the cold metal press against his neck and he froze on the spot, not saying anything.

Sebastian raises his own hands slightly, trying to placate with Jim. "Sir, he did nothing. He sat there as you asked, and Sherlock left, so he came out to help me. You didn't give him any orders aside from sitting there with Sherlock. There's no reason to shoot him."

Greg straightens ever so slowly, not moving away from the gun and keeping his hands raised next to his head. Mentally calculating; the numbers are not in his favour.

He gulps as the criminal moves the gun away from his neck. He lets out a shaky breath but before he could bring another back in Jim pulls the trigger. Greg screwed his eyes shut half expecting to feel the bullet rip through his chest but instead it splintered the wood next to him. If it had been Sebastian behind the gun, Greg would be finished. He jumped as Jim fired again. But this time he didn't miss. The bullet tore through his knee and out the other side. Blood sprayed onto the wooden floor, then Greg felt the pain and he screamed like he never had before. Another bullet through his hip caused the pain to intensify and Jim's face was the last thing he saw before he blacked out.

* * *

**I KNOW.**

**I KNOW.**

**I'M MEAN.**

**I feel the need to mention that Greg IS NOT DEAD. JUST KNOCKED OUT. DON'T PANIC. **

**Hope you enjoyed that ((in a heart-crushing kind of way)) C: **

**UNTIL THE NEXT TIME.**


	4. In Which Moran Fights Back

**NEXT CHAPTER C:**

Sebastian winces on Greg's behalf, sliding further back against the wall. Jim kicks the unconscious inspector hard in the ribs.

"You're lucky you're a good shot, Moran, or there would be a bullet between your eyes," he hisses. Sebastian doubts that but dares not say it, simply nodding.

Sherlock hears the gunshots from upstairs and curls up further, hoping no one is dead. Especially not Sebastian. He sits and wonders if he should go downstairs and check on him. He sounded like he was getting a pretty good beating from Jim. And Greg..._Oh dear god GREG!_ The gunshots. If it wasn't Sebastian getting shot then maybe it was Greg?! Or what if it wasn't even Jim behind the gun? What if Jim was dead by the inspector's hand? He jumped out of the bath and ran to the door. He pushed the furniture out of the way before jumping onto the bed and sitting up. The door slowly creaked open. Sherlock held his breath and buried his face in his knees.

"Sherlock..." It was Sebastian. The sniper had taken Lestrade's body to a cell downstairs and went to check on the detective.

Sherlock looks rather relieved as he looks over Sebastian- hurt, but not shot.

"W-who got shot?" he murmurs. Jim or Greg. He's not sure whom he'd prefer to have been shot. But Sebastian doesn't look too upset, so it couldn't be Jim...

"Was it Greg?" he whispers, looking rather afraid for the answer.

Sherlock felt Sebastian's arm weigh heavy on his shoulders. He linked his fingers through the sniper's before realising what he was doing. He jolted, stood up and walked backwards until his back was against the wall.

"I don't want to hurt you." He mewed weakly. "You're being hurt _because of me._" Sherlock put his arms up in a weak sign of defiance. Sebastian grabbed his arms and pinned them above of his head. Sebastian was sick and tired of Jim at this point. Although over the years he's done pretty well hiding it. He'd made friends every now and again but they had never been one of Jim's captive's. He tilted his head and kissed him. Sherlock flinches at the sudden pining of his wrists though he relaxes marginally into the kiss. He flinches again and moves his head away from the sniper, breaking the kiss.

"He'll just hurt you after. You don't deserve to be hurt because of me." His next words are almost inaudible. "I'm not worth it."

Sebastian lifts Sherlock's chin a little and looked at his eyes.

"Is that _seriously_ what you believe? That you're not worth it? If you weren't it, I would have killed you instead of leaving a scratch." Sebastian traced the line of stitches with his finger.

Sherlock shies away at the touch. "You should have. Then you wouldn't get hurt and maybe everyone would be happy."

"I wouldn't be." Sebastian frowns again. He opens his mouth to say something but the words are lost to the door slamming open. The sniper jumped and attempted to untangle himself from Sherlock. The detective panicked and pulled away but Sebastian's metal dog tags were caught in his shirt collar, unfortunately bringing the two men together. Sebastian turned his head to look at the newcomer. He frowned and looked up. Into the dark eyes of James Moriarty. Sherlock whimpered and tore the tags free from the fabric in a desperate bid to get free. Sebastian stood up a bit straighter and pulled Sherlock behind him protectively.

"Sebastian Augustus Xavier Moran." Jim growled under his breath. Sebastian swallowed. Jim had never, well _nobody had ever_, used his full name before. "You just never learn do you?" Jim flicked his wrist downward and a blade swiped into his hand.

Sherlock is terrified – for both himself and Sebastian. He tried to tell him that this was a bad idea. His eyes flit between Jim and the door. He can't run, effectively, and there's a good chance that it'll only make Jim angrier. But Sebastian...he needs to do something for the sniper, because he can tell that the larger man is cowed as it is by the usage of his full name, which he takes as a bad sign. He pulls away from Sebastian, stepping around him and walking over to Jim, looking rather scared but not daring to wait a second longer. He's wary of the knife as he slips to his knees, eyes lowered in a sign of submission.

"Jim, please. Nothing happened, I promise. Please leave him alone. He didn't do anything."

Jim says nothing. He twists the blade into his hands and looks between the two men. He then darted forward slamming the handle of the knife into Sherlock's cheek with enough force to break it. The detective drops to the floor, holding his right hand to his broken cheekbone.

Sebastian hears the _crunch _of metal hitting bone. He darts forwards to help him, panicking.

"Wrong choice Sebby." Jim says, almost _playfully, _before throwing the knife. Jim had a pretty good aim with knives, even if that skill was somewhat rendered useless since he never tracked anyone but Sherlock down. He had people to do that for him. The blade embedded itself in Sebastian's shoulder. The blond man stumbles back, clutching his shoulder. Blood flowed between his fingers and he dropped to his knees.

Sherlock's in absolute _agony_. Tears slip out, unbidden, blurring his vision as he sees Jim throw the knife at Sebastian. He feels guilty as he takes the criminal's distraction as an opening and slides out the open door before clambering to his feet shakily and running as best he can down the hall. He wrenches open a random door halfway down as his strength evaporates and steps through, shutting and locking it before frantically looking around the room. It seems to be a bedroom so he bolts for the bathroom and locks that door too, hiding in the cabinet under the sink and crying softly, which only serves to make his cheek hurt more. He knows Jim will find him but hopefully he'll give Sebastian a chance when he comes for his prisoner rather than an employee.

Sebastian jumps as Sherlock runs past. He collapses against the wooden dresser and smashes through it. He couldn't help but smile slightly because he knows if he could keep Jim there for long enough, Sherlock might have a chance at escapingbut Sebastian would almost certainly be killed Jim turned away from him and began making his way out the door. Without a pause for thought, Sebastian leaned forwards and wrapped one hand around Jim's ankle and pulled sharply. The criminal hit the floor with a smack. Sebastian pulled the knife out of his shoulder but he dropped it as his muscles began convulsing with agony. While he was down, Jim got to his feet, brushed the blood from the cut on his face and stood there panting.

"So sickeningly brave but unfortunately useless." He cut the knife into the bottom of Sebastian's jaw. "You love him don't you?" Sebastian looked at the floor and said nothing.

Sherlock waits and waits, but no footsteps come. Perhaps Jim is taking his anger out on Sebastian. He feels guilty, but he can't bring himself to get up and go back into the room. He just can't. Everything hurts inside and out, and he's exhausted physically and emotionally. Pain and loss of blood is making him lightheaded, and he doubts he could manage to even get back to that room without passing out in the hallway Sebastian had said that Jim wouldn't kill him- he's a necessary part of the Empire. And Sebastian came on to him, even when he said not to, so he shouldn't feel guilty. He does, but his limbs are trembling from exhaustion, and he can't do much about it now. His last thought before letting himself pass out is that hopefully Jim will just kill him, when he finds him.

Sebastian keeps his eyes to the floor, hoping Sherlock had managed to get somewhere relatively safe. Jim bent down and picked up the knife. He twirled it again, something he does before attacking someone.

"You wouldn't kill me. You need me." Sebastian was clutching at straws to try and stay alive. Jim just tilted his head and continued to twirl the knife.

"I'm sure I could get by. You're not the only one who knows how to aim a rifle." Sebastian tries to stand up, bringing his feet firmly underneath him and his hands flat on the floor. He stood up shakily, placed one hand on his shoulder. He could no longer hear any footsteps from down the hall. He and Jim stared at each other for minutes that seemed like hours.

"You remember the fun we used to have?" Jim was smiling again now He chuckled darkly and began walking towards him. Sebastian said nothing but swallowed hard.

"I'm sure Sherlock would love to see what I can reduce you too." He smiled again and raised an eyebrow. Sebastian eyes the knife, fear coursing through his veins like fire. The first 8 months he'd spent with Jim had been worse than hell, and the threat of having them repeated was more than terrifying.

"You're going to risk your best and most loyal employee for almost 10 years simply because I kissed Holmes? Look at the tapes. He was terrified and pushing me away. He doesn't care. He left now and didn't come back either. He couldn't care less, and all I wanted was the sex, which I didn't think would be a problem considering what you've had me do in the past. Look at the tapes and you can see clearly that I'm not lying- he burst into tears the second I touched him."

Jim tilts his head and considered. He ran the knife across Sebastian's jaw, still smiling.

"Still..."

Sebastian swallows again. Memories from past months flashed through his brain again as Jim moved the knife lower across his jaw and onto his neck. He tilts his head back slightly, not daring to move any further.

"Sir? If you're planning on keeping Holmes, I think you should find him now He was considering suicide a few minutes ago, and now, with neither of us there with him, would be the opportune time.

Jim smile disappeared before taking the blade away from his sniper's neck.

"Where is he?" His voice was cold and devoid of the shred of humanity he had left.

"I don't know." Sebastian stated simply It was true; he had no idea where Sherlock could have gone. "You're the one who broke into the three most secure places in Britain, you find him."

This was the bravest Sebastian had been in a long time. To begin with, Sebastian would dare talk back to Jim now he felt the need to protect Sherlock, by any means necessary.

Jim punches him, at the tone, the knife leaving a cut across his cheek. His other hand squeezes the stab wound viciously, causing Sebastian to shout, legs collapsing beneath him once more He delivers a sharp kick, snarling and leaving Sebastian hunched over in pain on the floor. His eyes are dark with anger and malice. "Whatever's put this attitude of yours back up, Moran, I suggest you get it under control, or I will for you." He turns and walks over to the door, strolling out and locking the door behind him. Sebastian will be punished more later. For now, he needs to find Sherlock.

Sebastian lifted up his head painfully and watch Jim go. His stab wound was leaking blood again and he could no longer find the strength to get up. He stayed on the floor for a few moments before getting to his knees Sherlock couldn't have gone far, there's no way he would have the will to Sebastian stayed down for a while then got to his shaky feet. He had to find Sherlock before Jim did.

Pulling the key from the door, Jim grabs his mobile from his pocket, sending a mass text to everyone on property.

_Find Holmes._

Moments later, feet are pounding down the halls above and below him, as well as down his hall, though he quickly sends them away. He has an idea. Sebastian had said that Sherlock didn't care, but he's not entirely convinced. And if he thinks Moran is in danger? He pulls out his gun and fires at the door, which hardly splinters- wood layered over steel. But Sherlock doesn't know that he's outside the room, away from Moran.

He smirks as he hears faint movement from behind one of the doors, though which one, he can't quite tell. He fires again, pretending to be screaming at Sebastian before crossing his arms, eyeing the hall expectantly.

Sherlock stays as far away from the door as he can but stays close enough to hear what was happening. He could hear gunshots and raised voices from Jim but nothing so far from Sebastian His head tilts toward the window, Sebastian was being hurt because of him The last thing Sherlock wanted to do, after everything Sebastian had done for him, was to hurt him His knees begin to shake more violently after every gunshot He looks around the room again trying to gather his bearings. Then his eyes fell on the window ledge. Still using the wall for support, Sherlock made his way over to the concrete overhang before pulling the latch open and looking down. The wall went straight down and the courtyard was flat Hitting that from this height would almost certainly kill him. He stops for a moment, considering the effect this would have on Sebastian but as Jim was now proving the sniper would be better off without. The world around him started to slow down. Soon, the only thing he could hear was his thundering heartbeat in his temples He'd been in this place before. Two years ago. On top of Bart's. And if Sebastian was anything remotely like John Watson, he'd get over it. It would take him a while but he'd move on. It was for the best, he couldn't let Jim hurt him anymore. Just as he was ready to jump, the door slammed open and Jim grabbed his collar, pulling him away from the ledge.

If Jim was angry before, he's beyond livid at this point, not that it exactly shows. Every employee he has knows that the calmer he looks, the worse his anger is. He tosses Sherlock away from the window; onto the floor as he latches shut the window once more. Two of his men are blocking the door so Sherlock can't run. When he turns to the ex-detective, his face is deceptively calm.

"That, my dear, was both foolish and disappointing"

Sherlock looks up at the criminal, trembling.

"Sebastian..." He mummers almost inaudibly Jim just laughed harshly.

"I knew you cared about him. Again, wrong decision. He's been...taken care of. He won't be kissing you anytime soon" He tutted. "What would Johnny Boy think? You falling in love with one of Britain's most wanted? Naughty."

Sherlock looks to the two men at the door, seeing no way of possible escape and this time Sebastian wasn't around to save him.

Jim's lips curl as he notices the look "Oh, dear. Sebby isn't going to come saving you, darling. He doesn't care" He crouches down, running his thumb along the man's broken cheek and earning him a pained whine from the detective. "You've been terribly disappointing, Sherly. I tried playing nice, but you had to go pining after Dear John and it all went downhill after that didn't it? You went from Johnny to me to Sebby in only a day," he tsks. "And now you want to die." He shrugs a bit "I'm going to give you a test run."

Sherlock was confused and scared at what that meant. Memories of John caused tears to come fresh to his eyes but he quickly shook them away.

"He cares." Sherlock manages to whine weakly.

"Sebby? Of course he doesn't. He only wanted you for the sex. He said it himself."

Sherlock's face fell but he was determined not to give Jim the satisfaction.

"What do you mean, test run?"

Jim smiles pleasantly.

"Of death. Obviously" He gestures with a hand, and a shot is released from one of the guns, a dart burying itself in the back of Sherlock's neck and making him slump bonelessly immediately, still completely awake but unable to move. The two guards stalk forwards to pick him up, and Jim smirks at the detective as he's carried out. "Have fuuun"

He's brought downstairs and everything immediately becomes horrifyingly clear as a coffin is brought in by another team of men, and Sherlock lowered, unable to protest, inside and the top nailed on.

**:3 **

**SHERLOCK'S NOT DEAD EITHER.**

**I SEEM TO ENJOY THIS.**

**THE NEXT ONE WILL BE UP EXTREMELY SOON AS I'VE FORGOTTEN TO UPDATE AS WE WRITE. :S**


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